Search results for: KENNETH KUNZ

My mom reached 87 this year. God bless her. Sure hope she gave me some of her genes!

Mom also taught me how to laugh.

For much of her life, even before I was born, she could be cold and stubborn, gracious but rude, liberal and conservative, accepting and very judgmental, controlling and demanding, submissive and coy. All with an extremely, self-centered, strong ego and vanity second to none. Your mom too? I sometimes refer to her as a drama queen/diva. She is also one of the more intelligent people I know, and can be extremely generous. Much more than I could ever hope to be. I really do love her. And beneath all of this, she is quite sentimental and emotional. I remember when I was a teen laughing and teasing her as she teared up watching what seemed, at the time, a corny scene in an Elvis Presley movie, of all things. I’ve witnessed her shedding tears many a time at similar instances, which I thought to be trivial, both in movies or real life.

Now some of you may be familiar with the late Jimmy Valvano, a college basketball coach who founded the V Foundation for Cancer Research. Shortly before he passed on, at the first ESPN Espy Awards, he received the Arthur Ashe Courage and Humanitarian Award. During his acceptance speech (which you should all Google and experience), he mentioned three things we should do every day: laugh, think, and have your emotions moved to tears (for happiness or joy). I surely think a lot. I try to laugh whenever possible, but boy oh boy can I be moved to tears every single day, even over the most trivial sentiment (except any part of any Elvis movie — never liked any of them). It is, by far, the easiest thing to do.

So many things to bring out our emotions — the fragility of our existence; a child struggling with cancer; the innate goodness of man moved to a selfless act; the beauty of nature; a truly corny Hallmark movie (some real good ones lately); a certain hymn at Mass; a firefighter who perishes attempting to save someone; a daughter hugging her “Poppy” returning from war. So many things. So many things. I’ve shed more of these tears than all those I’ve seen coming from my mom’s eyes. Such a sentimental fool am I. Truly, truly thankful I have those genes from my mom. Truly.

This is a most emotional, sentimental time of the year is it not? Of our life on this orb, yes? Love is the word.

Like this:

The last time I managed to pass an eye test free of corrective lenses, I was a seventh grader in a Catholic grammar school in a smallish North Jersey suburb of New York City. Having taken the test soooo many times over the years, the E’s, the N’s and the T’s, et al, were somewhat engrained in my sub-conscious. I never had any problem whatsoever.

This year was different, though. I had recently been comparing my far-sightedness with one of my older brothers, who could hit a baseball a country mile in Little League, and then had trouble in Babe Ruth and high school. Come to find out, he needed glasses.

So I compared what he could see with what I was now having trouble seeing. I also had had a bout with conjunctivitis in sixth grade, which kept me home from school for the first time ever. Didn’t even feel sick. I always blamed the red eye for my eyesight degradation, and was not too happy about losing my perfect attendance record.

In those days, there was still a bit of stigma attached to those who wore glasses – “four eyes” people were called, and the weakling defensive cry, “you wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses would you?” was invoked when a playground left-jab lurked.

So I was relatively shy at the prospect of having to wear glasses. But I took the test, and passed. Seems that the school nurse used the same pattern with every student tested before me in line. I memorized the stupid chart. And passed. (Blurry as it really was.)

By eighth grade, the eye-scam had run its course. Wearing that first pair was quite depressing. I was even dizzy coming out of the optometrist’s office with my new brown, horn-rimmed specs. I was embarrassed. After all, I was lucky enough to be one of the smarter, and, dare I say, cooler guys in the class. How could I wear glasses and maintain?

Didn’t wear them all that much that year. Things had been blurry for some time so I was kind of used to it. Freshman year brought me to a private Catholic (still all-boys to this day), prep school. And it WAS preppy! And the glasses I needed to see now kind of fit with the blazer (sans any school emblem), white shirt and tie that were standard fare in those days.

Wearing those horn-rimmed suckers became an accessory, and since I was just another freshman face in the crowd, my cool was safe, despite being amidst a host of geeks and nerds. (Called them something different in those days but those terms seem to escape me at the moment.)

Later on in life, I began to wear contacts. I’ll never forget the first time I paddled out into the ocean to surf a bit, turned around and actually saw the beach! I saw the waves better as well. Were they always this big? Thought the lenses would bring a little relief from taking my glasses off to read, and then putting them back on to look at television, or whatever, but of course, I then fell prey to the macular degeneration so many of us are doomed to endure.

Working on a computer surely hasn’t helped the situation. Now I have umpteen readers – one on every level of my home, in my workshop, a pair or two in the car, one for work. All to wear while the contacts are in! I am rarely without some sort of specs – readers on the tip of my nose, regular glasses resting on top of my head or just on to see things when I’m not wearing contacts.

And strangely enough, I often also find myself walking around and about without contacts, readers, or eyeglasses whatsoever. After all, I’m not all that blind. I do still enjoy wearing eyeglasses as an accessory (helps rationalize NOT getting Lasik surgery as well).

I have my dress-up pair, my good pair, and my back-up pair, which I allow myself, at times, to fall asleep in. Not sure life is ALL that clearer as a result, but I have been seeing things pretty good these last 50 years or so. Maybe I’ll see some of you sometime.

Share this:

Like this:

When I reached my senior year of undergraduate studies, I moved into an old duplex that was probably built in the late 19th or early 20th century. There was an even older cemetery out back, which was cool since we knew our backyard neighbors would not be complaining about any commotion that might ensue from the revelry of a house filled with college students. I moved there on a recommendation of a friend, as it would be the first time in my entire life that I’d have the opportunity to have my own room! Growing up with three brothers meant shared space. That was followed by sharing a dorm room, and then other rooms in other boarding houses. This was a luxury indeed! Funny how that was so special then.

At any rate, I settled in, and somewhere in the ensuing months a new housemate moved in. Some of the men in the house were closely acquainted with him from around campus, but I had only a slightly more-than-casual relationship with him. After a few days of living together, I realized the kinship we were developing was, at least on my part, due to the fact that he so much reminded me of my oldest brother, who was, and remains, one of my role models and heroes. So when people asked me how the new housemate was, I responded that he was just like my older brother. They would ask – how could that be?

Oh, did I forget to mention that my housemate is a man of color? I have done that a lot over the years. How could a black dude remind you of your brother? What??? I was exasperated. In Facebook/Twitter/Text Speak, I was SMH (Shaking My Head). Paid them no never mind. That housemate remains one of my closest and dearest friends to this day. (The subject of college buddies, by the way, is another story … stay tuned.)

Recently, this friend’s lovely daughter, and her children, were in a grocery store checkout line, and the cashier commented that she thought, “Mulatto kids are the most beautiful.” Oh wait, something else I forget to relate – my friend’s daughter has bi-racial parents. I forgot because her mom and dad have always been just my friends – skin pigmentation was never an issue.

So my friend’s grandchildren obviously have a bi-racial genetic makeup. (They are friggin’ gorgeous, by the way.) But mulatto? Last time I heard that term used I think I was in grammar school – that was over 50 years ago for Christ’s sake. The cashier did note that her “granddaughter is mulatto, too.”

Not that the term is a slur or anything, and I really don’t believe the cashier had any overt ill intent in what she said, but she, like those who queried me on my housemate so many years ago, and too many others of that ilk, all retain that subtle bias that seems to simmer at the rim of our society. I was fortunately raised to forgo skin color when evaluating folks, and I still do. But it is frustratingly disturbing, and disheartening, to realize that after all these years, and often so close to my heart, I see instances of the racial divide all too much for my digestion – both mental and gastric.

A well known, though perhaps not so venerated man named King (Rodney), once pleaded for us all to “just get along.” Wish we would. We surely could. We seem to be more influenced by, “just do it,” and deep-seated negative tendencies than by striving to love one another. So much easier to love than hate – to any degree.

Hey, I am no saint. I fall prey to jokes I should disdain. I fight off certain feelings about certain people. My snob index rises sometimes, even though I know I am really not better than anyone else. But when I wholeheartedly have a dislike for folks, it is based on who they are, and not what they look like. That I have down pat. And I will continue to try to improve in my dealings with fellow citizens of Earth.

People all over the world,
Join hands.
Start a love train, love train.

Like this:

Years ago, after Al Gore ” … took the initiative in creating the Internet,” and we all wondered, having newly acquired our first PC, how we’d ever master that mouse-thingie in trying to navigate the ever-disappearing arrow it supposedly controlled, I became wrapped up in e-mailing folks.

And the “You’ve Got Mail” ping was ALMOST as nice as getting a snail mail letter in simpler times. A negative side effect of the new phenomenon, however, was that there were too many users who kind of hid behind an e-mail, rather than actually speak to a friend, vendor, or client one-to-one via phone. Some of those folks still do.

Nevertheless, I started using e-mail as a viable business tool, slowly replacing my use of the fax machine (hated that irritating sound anyway), but, more importantly, I e-mailed friends and relatives to keep in touch like I had not done previously. I had, indeed, kept close contact with many people over the years, but e-mail let me expand that realm.

I remember e-mailing a cousin, and apologizing for not having stayed in touch as much as I probably should have in the past. Like all of us, life got in the way, and time restraints kept my overall correspondence to a relative minimum. At least that’s my company line
rationalization for the void. My cousin’s response to my apology was that it didn’t matter what we did, or didn’t do, in the past, we ARE keeping in touch now. How sweet of her to say so!

And it was proof positive that no matter what doors we avoided, or went through over the years, we ended up where we are for whatever reason and that, succinctly, is the way it is. “Live each day,” and all those other clichés that all so often become inescapable truisms.

Nowadays, social media has exploded, and I keep in touch with so many people that I heretofore hadn’t on a regular basis. It is a wonderful experience! There are, of course, those inane Facebook posts, tweets, and such. I am surely not a fan of knowing how many reps you did in the gym today (unless you’re recovering from an injury or dealing with an illness), some lame info about a celebrity, a barb aimed at an athlete, or an inappropriate, unsubstantiated, misguided political rant. But those posts that include inspirational thoughts, humorous insights, musical rarities, PSAs, or family photos are priceless. And welcomed.

It is nice to have smiles provided on a daily basis. It is also so cool to just reconnect with people with whom we were close in the past. With contact now rekindled, we share our views and emotions that remain similar, just like they were years ago, despite our separate life journeys. Comforting, I think, to remember why we liked each other in the first place, and that we still possess those same traits, likes and dislikes.

Rather neat, as well, to have actually made new friends in the past few years and be able to converse with them in shared experiences. Always amazes me that we can get close to new people in our respective “advanced ages.” Point is, we really are all in this together.

Our world has become quite small indeed, and we are all now most assuredly citizens of a global village. Constant contact keeps us close, keeps our optimism positive, and our faith strong. It allows us to, vent, kibitz, philosophize, laugh, cry … and share it all with all true friends.

Like this:

During my annual physical a couple of years back, my primary care provider (once known as family doctor), asked me if I had ever had chicken pox. I confidently responded that I had not. Indeed, for my entire adult life, for fear of contracting the condition, I had stayed away from children with chicken pox, those possibly about to get chicken pox, and any young person just getting over chicken pox. Doc chuckled rather condescendingly, and said that many of his patients insisted that they, too, had never had chicken pox. Yet, upon testing, were almost always proved wrong. He ordered the appropriate blood test for me to convince me I was mistaken as well.

On a follow up visit soon after, he reviewed the test results, and sure enough I was correct! I would have remembered the scars I told him, in a most non-condescending tone. He shook his head, smiled and actually apologized for doubting me. But now we had to get me a chicken pox vaccination posthaste because adults who had had chicken pox in their youth are prone to contracting shingles. He wrote me a script to get vaccinated.

After enduring a few months of dealing with a bit of a rigmarole involving matters such as who covered what, and when a supply could be ordered, I ended up back where I started at my PCP’s office, and he ordered the special serum. In two separate sessions, I was vaccinated, then boostered. I felt great – comforted knowing that now I wouldn’t have to worry about shingles (which I had always heard could be quite painful). I also always thought it was one of the goofier sounding conditions one had to admit going through.

I have had intermittent lower back (lumbar) pain since my twenties due to more things than I can remember. I imagine most of us can make that claim. I have often said that as soon as Homo sapiens finally stood erect, the entire species began having back pain of some sort (another story perhaps). At any rate, shortly after the vaccination episode, I started experiencing a bit more back pain than usual, and went through my normal protocol for relief – extra doses of Advil, some pain relief cream, stretching, et al. Nothing worked.

And then … I started itching and burning. Like sunburn. Then a rash developed. Then the self-diagnosis (with the help of Google, WebMD and a host of other sites), that I had contracted shingles. What? But I thought …

Never mind. Went back to the PCP, and sure enough, within about one second of examination, it was confirmed I had the suckers. Relatively mild case, but more severe pain than I had ever experienced next to kidney stones (still another story). Went through the prescribed treatment, and within two weeks all was fine. By the way, no one could really explain why I got shingles after being vaccinated against chicken pox. I personally feel the stupid vaccination made my body believe I actually had chicken pox, so why not let me fall prey to shingles as the natural follow-up?

A few months ago, my most recent visit to my PCP has him telling me I am now old enough to get the shingles vaccination and he suggests I do so as soon as I can. I venture to the pharmacy, and am informed that since I had yet to turn 60 at the time, I needed a script. Back to the pcp. Now with script in hand, back to the pharmacy. They can surely help, but they have none in stock, and the insurance site is jammed so it is not sure that my policy covers the shot. Is it me? I leave – don’t feel like waiting. About a month later I go back during my lunch break, and within 15 minutes, all is good. I get the vaccination with no co-pay or any other charge.

Phew!

Except now, despite all this great preventative care, every time I get even the slightest itch in my back, guess what I’m thinking?

Share this:

Like this:

It was only 20 more miles that the coolant hose had to hold out, but it just couldn’t – or wouldn’t! After I pulled my car to the shoulder and shut the engine, I pondered the white plumes surrounding the vehicle hoping (and praying), I would not also see flames. I didn’t.

Admonishing myself for not getting my car serviced before I embarked on my Thanksgiving day trip to my mom’s, I opened the hood, and took a look. (As if I was going to be able to do something – ha ha!) The steam finally began to subside, and as I began thinking of where I’d have AAA tow the thing, a vehicle suddenly pulled over.

I needed this.

I swear the tall figure that got out of that Ford Bronco, and started walking toward me, was moving in slow motion, as if in a fantasy scene from so many movies we’ve all seen. The man reached me and my car, handed me a gallon container of engine coolant and said, “You’ll need this!” How did he know already?

We finally located the problem, and proceeded with the repair triage. It was arduous, at best, especially with all the hot fluid, and the minimalist spacing in a foreign car engine compartment for even regular size hands to navigate. And both of us having good sized hands, of course. We finally cut a piece from a ball point pen cartridge, finagled it into the torn hose connection, invoking a crude version of Auto Shop 101, taped it up, and turned over the engine. Success!

Conveniently, we shared the same destination, and this Good Samaritan offered to follow me all the way in to make sure I arrived safely. Such a nice guy that he wouldn’t shake my extended hand, as he felt his was too soiled from the task we had just completed – mine was almost as dirty as his. And of course, he would not accept the money I offered him for the anti-freeze. So we just fist-bumped and both headed east – 20, hopefully short, miles to go.

Nineteen, 18, 17 miles more – all systems go. Sixteen, 15, 14 – temperature gauge off again. Thirteen, 12, 11 – small puffs of smoke. Ten, 9, 8, – LOTS of puffs of smoke. Seven, 6, 5, 4 – wafts of steam clouds. Is this the longest it has ever taken me to drive this stretch of highway? Three, 2, 1 – last traffic light. My new acquaintance pulls up alongside me to ask if I think I’ll make it. I assure him the last few hundred yards are doable. And they were.

It is often comforting to arrive at one’s mother’s house, especially on Thanksgiving, but this day had become something special. A mini-disaster (or at least a royal pain in the butt), turned into an affirmation of the goodness of man. A stranger taking it upon himself to take time from his own holiday and help a fellow life-traveler. A simple and selfless act of which to be most thankful indeed. I wish I could be that generous and helpful to a stranger. Perhaps now I will be so inspired sometime in the future.

Everyone should experience a Thanksgiving day (and every other day) as wonderful as the one I had this year.

Like this:

Even at a very early age, I was resigned to the fact that, someday, in the far distant future, I would no longer have a full head of hair. After all, my maternal grandfather was bald, and so the genetic hair-loss link between him and me, I was led to believe, would lead to my own hair loss someday. I also decided, early on, that I would grow my hair as long as I possibly could when the time came around. I suffered through years of ’50s-style crew cuts, until eighth grade, when I was allowed to eschew the crew, and opt for a longer, albeit quite conservative, look.

By the summer before my junior year in high school, the hair got longer. It was a struggle at times. A friend of mine and I got thrown out of the local barber shop because of our looks. (We were soliciting patrons for a Key Club pamphlet!) And my mom issued a veiled threat that she would inform my dad of what my brothers and I were ingesting if I didn’t “get that hair cut!” She was an elementary school teacher at the time, and was getting drug seminars every Friday for a while. Have to admit, I got a hair cut after much consternation and pacing back in forth of that very same barber shop I just mentioned.

Hair on head and shoulders.

My freshmen year of college was spent in Tallahassee, Florida, which still had white and colored drinking fonts out in the open, if not in actual use, and where the upperclassmen informed me and a fellow Northeastern liberal that the locals didn’t cotton much to blacks – and long-hairs. We kind of pooh-poohed all that, until we were stranded one night in a broken-down, borrowed car while returning from a concert in Jacksonville, when the local gendarme took one look at us, and informed us that we were not in his “joorisdickshawn,” and wasn’t likely to be helping us right soon.

As we watched him leave us on the interstate, we knew it would be a long night. And it was. Upon reaching my senior year in college, now back in New Jersey, I had to listen to wise-cracks from folks – like when going to a Jets game at the big Shea, I heard guys say to my dad that it was nice that he was bringing his “daughter” to the game. Or ducking debris tossed at me as I bicycled my way through the Jersey Pinelands on my way to Ortley Beach. Pineys were much like folks in Tallahassee in those days. (They may still be today.)

Sometime later, subtly but surely, my forehead began to recede. But it wasn’t until my late 30s and early 40s, where it all really began to finally go away. Around the age of 50, I finally decided to shave the rest of what was left. I knew the decision was cool, when the 20-something girls I was working with at the time oohed and aahed when I first showed up to work with my newly-liberated dome. I am fortunate to be in an era where shaved heads are quite accepted, although I would not shave my head if I had a full head of hair. I would totally still prefer having all my hair, even though I am quite secure with my head as it is now. Incidentally, I still have a full head of luxurious hair in nearly all my dreams.

This leads me to the loss of hair elsewhere on my body. I have, since puberty, had a good amount of body hair. Mostly arms, legs, and chest. (None to speak of on my back.) Somewhere in my 40s, I started to lose hair on the outside of my shins; calves. No one could explain why this was happening. Nearly everyone, including my primary care doc, theorized it was from wearing jeans, and the seams wore the hair away. Why then, only on the outer calves? No one knew. Then it started disappearing on my thighs. Again no one knew. It wasn’t fair, and I couldn’t blame by grandfather for this one. I will say, I did find a perfect spot on my left calf for a really cool tattoo. Pretty soon my legs will be as hairless as my head. And I just don’t know why. At least no one is making comments about my legs.

But wait, I think I do know where ALL the hair has gone – it’s coming out of my ears and my nose. Sheesh!

Share this:

Like this:

Frank Terranella, 62, grew up in an Italian (mostly Sicilian) ghetto in Lodi, New Jersey, and this, naturally, explains his fascination with fiction and writing. He’s been a writer for as long as he can remember – which is decreasing every day. He wrote poetry when he was 10, and short stories when he was 13. He’s contributed articles to the The New York Times, and the New York Daily News. In college, he worked on the campus daily newspaper where he met his wife. Hoping to make a living as a writer, he interned at the Worcester (Mass.) Telegram & Gazette. That got him a job with the Gannett newspapers in White Plains, New York. He worked as a daily newspaper editor for four years before deciding (upon the launch of CNN) that there was no future for the newspaper business. He attended Fordham Law School at night to earn a parachute out. But even after leaving the world of journalism in the rear view mirror, he kept writing. Frank wrote articles for legal publications, and even did a stint with Simon & Schuster as a tax newsletter editor. In 1998, he established his own law firm with a partner, which quickly led to a heart attack in December 1999. Soon after, he decided to look for more humane work, but that didn’t work out because he was heavily invested in his law degree. So he took a job with an intellectual property boutique firm in New York, where he can be found to this day. Frank celebrated the 20th anniversary of his 39th birthday this year. He has been married for 34 years and has two adult boomerang children whom he will miss when the economy improves. However, he has confidence that politicians will see to it that the current recession lasts well into the next decade, so he won’t be able to rent out his children’s rooms to finance his retirement.

_______________________

Bob Smith, 61, a New Jersey native, has been practicing trademark law since 1985. Along the way he has done a bit of writing (including one full-length screenplay, not yet snapped up by the Hollywood dream machine), some acting, and stand-up comedy, all in addition to raising three remarkable children with his wife and life companion, Maria. At 58 years old, Bob might appear to be at the tail end of this blog’s demographic, but don’t be fooled – he plans to stay in his 50s for at least ten more years.

____________________________

Jeannette Gobel, 56, is a native of the state of Washington. She was born and raised in Spokane and moved to the Seattle area when she married Kevin in 1978. Jeannette has a grown son and daughter. Life is full these days with substitute teaching, travel, dinner with friends, and home projects.

_____________________________

Margie Rubin, 59, grew up in Yonkers, New York. She went to SUNY Binghamton for a year, and then moved to California. She never looked back. She eventually finished college and graduate school in San Francisco, and has worked in education for 35 years. She’s an avid runner, loves the theater, music, and traveling. Though she loves living in the San Francisco Bay Area, she will always be a New Yorker at heart. She’s married with two grown daughters.

____________________________

Kenneth Kunz, 61, is another contributor who group up in Italian, Lodi, New Jersey. (Although he didn’t think it was a ghetto.) He started writing minor essays when the nuns made him write so-many-word-long punishments for whatever dalliance he committed, and has, along his life path, continued writing mostly for fun – letters to the editor (many of which have actually been published), regular urgings to congressmen and senators, and criticisms and praises to print columnists and media hosts. He has also written a slew of introspective poems since about 1969.

He is currently a major contributor to his community newsletter, as well as a writer for his parish newsletter. Having grown up with a rather perplexing, and non-substantiated, belief that he would not make it past the age of 40, he considers these last two decades as bonus time, and is grateful for every day on this side of the dirt. (Although he is hopeful of spending the next phase of his energy in a place as close to heaven as he can get.) He is blessed with numerous nieces and nephews, and really close friends. His blind faith strengthens every day.

_____________________________

Elizabeth Perwin, 60, has cultivated a thriving couples and individual therapy practice in Silver Spring, Maryland. A beach bunny by birth, Elizabeth was born and raised in Miami. That has shaped her entire outlook on life – for the better. Liz majored in work hard/play hard at Tulane, then grew up and aced her grad degree in public policy at Princeton. She is a passionate fashionista, and has funneled that passion into a side business called Weekend Boutique. Her mission: To awaken fashion and passion in the women of Washington, D.C. It’s a daunting assignment, but so far she’s made a definite dent.

_________________________________

Joseph Gilday, 62, met Elizabeth Perwin after a Pilates class. Liz interrupted him as he was flirting with a much younger woman wearing perfectly fitted yoga attire. Joe didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, but now he understands that Liz rescued him from a conversation that was going nowhere, and engaged him in one that continues deliciously to this day. Joe has changed careers almost as many times as most gen Xers have changed jobs: An actor, a college professor, a television production coordinator, a cable news producer, and now a specialist in website optimization and content marketing.

__________________________________

Anita, circa 1977.

Anita Jaffe, is a little further right of the right side of 50, since she actually turned 50 in 1978. She was born in New York City, became a teacher, and raised her family in West Allenhurst, New Jersey. She moved back to Manhattan in 2010. She is loving every minute of it.

______________________________

Leslie Lewis, 66, grew up in Tenafly, New Jersey – a suburb of Manhattan. She has since lived in several parts of the United States, and has had many incarnations – the latest being a first grade teacher in downtown Los Angeles. She says, “If you want to see into a crystal ball to view the future of our society, become a teacher.” She knows her ABCs, and can count past 100. Leslie currently lives in Southern California, close to her sister, children and grandchildren. She never uses the words “dude” or “gnarly,” and does not permit them in the classroom.

________________________________

Debbie Neely, 60, feels as if she is just barely on the right side of 50. She recently retired as administrator of the Outpatient Psychiatric Department of George Washington University and now enjoys writing, gardening, and, yes, baking.